Lay My Head Down On You
by Tricki
Summary: "Years later I think that I would have been much more alive to have taken you up on your offer and taken that drive" The Indigo Girls. Amanda & Simon. Simon reflects on an opportunity lost.


Ship: Amanda & Simon {what else is news? :P}

Set: Post Series

Spoilers: Nothing, really.

Summary: Simon wonders what would've been different in his life if Amanda hadn't gone back to Adelaide.

AN: The song at the start and the title come from the Indigo Girls song 'Lay My Head Down On You' {Thanks to Becs on that one}. R&R if you see fit, but most of all, enjoy! xx

Was it so long ago  
That we sat and talked in your car?  
Your things were all packed  
And the place you were headed not really that far  
Years later I think  
That I would have been much more alive  
To have taken you up on your offer and taken that drive

And I wanna lay my head down on you

It had already been dark when she'd left. He never quite understood that, since it was a nine hour drive - although it was possibly less taking into account the way she drove. Anyone else would've left in the morning, but not her. She was always crazy like that.

She'd gone to his house on the way out of town, and he was glad of that fact; he wouldn't have coped if he'd not seen her one last time.

He didn't know why he'd ended up having a conversation with her in her car - probably because she was only passing though and didn't really have time to stop.

Even so, he had slid into the little silver Barina – which was filled almost to bursting point with things – and taken in her appearance. She was wearing a deep red jumper and tracksuit pants.

"I didn't like the idea of sitting in a car for ten hours in suit pants." She had joked, unfairly implying that he'd never seen her out of work clothes.

They'd chatted for what seemed like hours, but was actually only fifteen minutes, and then somehow – he doesn't even remember how anymore – they'd gotten to the point of her saying "You know, you could always come with me."

"To Adelaide?"

"Yeah. Why not." She'd shrugged, a winning smile playing about her lips. He'd sat there, in her all too familiar and much loved Barina, and surveyed her.

It was only seven hundred and twenty something kilometres.

He didn't know in what sense she'd meant it, though. They'd called it quits, decided they were 'only ever meant to be friends – _best _friends' and that had never really worked for him. But he'd learnt to live with it, because he wanted her in his life one way or another and if that was the way it had to be, he could live with that. He has always been a man of incredible self control. Once upon a time he'd hoped that didn't have to be the case around her, though.

So while he sat there letting the heaven-sent smell of her car {hot chips, ScotchGuard and her perfume} envelop him, he seriously considered just picking up and going with her. But he had a job. He had responsibilities. He had a lifetime's worth of ties to Melbourne. And she... She didn't want him that way. So why in god's name did she ask him to go with her that day? He still can't work it out. He wishes he could.

But even then, even as he said laughingly "Amanda, I don't think my stuff will fit in here too," a part of him knew he wouldn't see her again.

Now he looks back on it and thinks how silly he was. It's a sixty dollar flight - or something equally negligible to someone with his income. He could've gone. He _should _have gone.

Because, really, what harm could have come of it? Alright, they'd had some pretty awkward car-rides, and maybe two and a half hours of pure awkwardness was more than enough, but something in him still says that that one trip to Adelaide might have saved them. Might have turned back the clock and reminded her how good they'd been for that one short fortnight, and shown her how much better they could've been then, when he'd been properly divorced and had learnt how to really be on his own. He would've been much better for her by then – might've even deserved her. But that wasn't the way it worked out, and he is mostly fine with that; except for days like today when he sits and wonders what would've been.

He has no idea what she's doing now, which is largely by choice. Why should he seek to find out how his life could've gone? It didn't. That should be enough. It's only days like today when it isn't - days when he thinks about her, about the last time he saw her; about the last chance he had.

She'd laughed the laugh he still loves, still hears in his dreams some nights and said "Alright. Offer's on the table."

"For twenty-four hours?" He'd teased, prolonging the mediation joke.

"Twenty four minutes at best." She had smiled, but he'd already seen some of the sparkle drain from her eyes. He remembers the entire conversation in perfect detail.

"You're not going to want me around, anyway. You'll have your real life back." He'd told her, and now he realises he was trying to convince himself more than her.

"My real life was here." She'd said quietly, her face falling into seriousness.

"And now?" He'd tried so hard not to let himself get hopeful – tried to discount the idea that she might say her real life was with him, or something equally clichéd and awful. He scoffs – of course the woman he loves would never stoop to clichés. Instead she'd said very heavily:

"Now I don't know."

"At least you haven't had it, lost it, and regretted it." He'd parroted her affectionately.

"I didn't say that." Her words still cut him. It was her decision to end their relationship, he'd merely agreed, merely been unselfish enough to let her have what she wanted – now he realises that what she really wanted was for him to fight for her.

"Will you visit me?" She'd asked him. Her tone was hopeful, but he saw the defeat etched across her features – features he still knows absolutely by heart and still holds every other woman against and dismisses every other woman because of.

"Of course." He'd smiled. Neither of them believed him. He doesn't understand it now. Why couldn't he? There had been such an unspoken finality about the conversation but even so that shouldn't have stopped him.

"I should probably get going." Her words had barely been audible.

"Yeah..."

He'd reached out for her hand, clasped it in both of his own and kissed it lovingly, before pulling her into an extremely awkward hug over her gearstick. When he finally pulled back a little he'd cupped her cheek and pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead. It still galls him that the last time he touched her had been restricted by the dim idea of impaling himself on a gearstick...

"Drive safely, okay?"

"You know me."

"I do, and that's why I'm telling you to drive carefully - for once."

"Alright. Alright, I'll try."

"Call me when you get there?"

"Okay." She had agreed, but he sensed the doubt in her. He'd squeezed her hand one last time and had gotten out of the car. He'd waived her off and had waited until she was completely out of sight before going back inside. She never called.

He sits here now with a glass of scotch and wonders exactly what he would be doing now if he'd gone with her. The only thing he knows for sure is that he'd be a very different Simon Lloyd to the one he is today. He might even be happy – happy in a way he hasn't been since the day she drove out of his life.

* * *

AN2: Now I'll need to post something happy because I don't like making him sad. I'm such a sook.


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